


Late

by ProwlingThunder



Series: With the Devil's Own Luck [7]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Gen, Mutant Hounds, Super Mutants, Touch of Grief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 20:13:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5429312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProwlingThunder/pseuds/ProwlingThunder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing good comes from being late, Silas knows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Late

He could have blamed the radiation storm for the queasiness. It would have been effective, if not even moderately close to the truth. Not that radiation storms didn't cause illness.... but in this case, Silas was pretty sure it was the super mutants that were the cause.

They were dead, of course. A good scope and a lot of distance meant he didn't have to get close for them to hit the ground. But going in, finding out if there were still people in here-- and sometimes there were, in super mutant camps-- was important, and Silas wouldn't shirk the duty for anything. At least the super mutants no longer looked human, recoil was the worst thing he felt when pulling the trigger on them. 

The people, the pieces, that they left behind... those he felt guilty for, wishing he could have gotten there sooner, quicker. For every one he managed to save out here in the Commonwealth, there were dozens, maybe hundreds, he never did. The nightmares were unwelcome-- and there were nightmares, always-- but it was a soothing balm when he found people in these places.

Many, most, were dead and beyond help. Some had injuries too severe for him to save, and it was a waste of stimpaks and bandages but they were usually the only ones alive, and that made them the most injured people here, and he couldn't not help them, could he? They deserved help as much as anyone else. 

Some begged for a bullet. He needed all the bullets he could get, he was scrounging as it was, but sometimes there was nothing else he could do for them. Sometimes a bullet was the only salvation he could give.

But sometimes he could help. Sometimes it was only broken bones, and those he had the knowledge and skills to fix. Could fix. It was agony, to have a broken bone; harder still to let him set it. He had to throw his weight on them to keep them steady while he twisted the bones back into place, or lanced swelling limbs. Rebar steel and cloth, duct tape, they made good braces. Silas had had to learn that the hard way once, taking a long slide down a long hill. He had recovered, of course he had recovered, but he had fumed for hours, stewing over his own judgment and lack of grace. 

It was a good thing Dogmeat knew what he had been wanting. It wasn't like he carried rebar in his pocket or anything. And using a stimpak would have been worthless, if he hadn't been able to set and brace his leg, so it would stay secure while healing. 

But he used more stimpaks on other people than he ever did on himself. It was amazing he ever had any, really...

But there wasn't anybody in this particular camp who needed help. There wasn't anyone here left alive. Super mutants so rarely left people alive...

Silas made his way through the dilapidated buildings with a surreal sense of feeling like he'd been here before. He probably had; this was the Boston territory. And yet.. maybe he had dreamed it, this place. The dead bodies, the bags of half-eaten flesh, rife with maggots and flies. Something twitched in his peripheral and he stopped, turning to give the super mutant's corpse a long look. It wasn't alive-- couldn't be alive, he had blown it's head clean off-- but the future was a hellish wasteland worse than anything the Communists had been able to cook up, and he wouldn't put it past radiation to do weirdness to the things it had mutated.

Still, it didn't grow a second head. Could have just been fine muscle tremors. Could have been gravity still pulling it down from a stone. What mattered was that it did not move again. Silas continued on.

He passed a cage of mole-rats, paws red and raw where they were trying to burrow through the wire beneath their feet. He thought he saw a little girl's shoe in one corner, and looked away from them for a minute, scanning the rest of this room, this little nook in the camp. Nothing else moved, nothing else was here. He breathed and lifted his rifle, and the animals died squealing with a few quick shots.

He left them there. It was a waste of meat, but he wanted none of it.

The next room was a store room, full of crates of stolen ammo, weapons, clothing. He considered it all very seriously before resolving to return to it.

...the room after that was where the cages were. And the people. Or what was left of people. Pieces of people, strewn throughout the room. Giant, mutated hounds turned to look at him as he entered, one of them still crunching on an arm that may have once belonged to a young man. Silas stared back at them, the scent of copper invading his lungs. He had heard them scream..

Too late. Always too late.


End file.
